That message changes everything. I need to tighten security—check the perimeter sensors, double-lock the exits, maybe set up a decoy signal to throw off any trackers.
And I need to do all this without him knowing.
If I tell Billie there’s a real threat, he’ll either freak out or push back harder, and I can’t afford either. Not when I’m starting to think there’s more at play here than Trent’s letting on.
My instincts, honed from years of dodging bullets and double-crosses, are screaming that this setup stinks.
Why the rush?
Why the vague “threat” excuse?
Something’s off, and until I know what, Billie stays in the dark.
“You just stay nice and relaxed there, Billie,” I say, my voice low and calm as my mind rages with memories.
I think back to one of my first Guard missions, a so-called simple escort job in the Mediterranean…
We were moving a diplomat’s kid across the sea, a quick boat ride from one port to another. Piece of cake, they said. Hell, we even joked about topping up our tans on the boat ride and then hitting a bar later that evening. We’d been in way more dangerous scenarios. This would be a cakewalk. Then the speedboats came—three of them, armed to the teeth, hired by some piece of crap human trafficker with a grudge. We were outflanked and outgunned too. Everything went from zero to one hundred in a matter of seconds. But while we might have been numerically outnumbered, we were still Guards. It was tough, touch and go for a moment. But we got out, but barely.The kid was crying, shaking, the boat was leaking, and I still have a scar on my shoulder from a stray bullet. I swore I’d never let a mission go sideways like that again. Not on my watch. And not with Billie, no matter how much he tests me.
He shifts on the couch, his eyes flicking to me, then away, like he’s sizing me up. I can tell he’s boiling up to something—another tantrum, probably. That foot-stomp earlier, when he snatched the keys and stormed inside, was a warning shot.
And when I called him a spoiled brat, his face went red, his voice cracked, and he bolted. But there was something else in his eyes, a spark that wasn’t just anger. It was like he felt it too—the pull, the way my voice made him pause, made himlisten, even if he didn’t want to.
It’s the same spark I saw in the truck when he sassed me but smiled at my chuckle. My Daddy instincts, the ones I’ve buried under years of missions, are telling me he’s a Little, or at least close to it.
But the boy doesn’t know it yet, and I’m not about to push that button.
Not when I’ve got a job to do.
“Billie,” I say, keeping my voice firm but calm, stepping toward the couch. “We need to go over the rules for this place. You ready to listen, or are you gonna make this harder than it needs to be?”
Billie rolls his eyes, tossing his hair back with a huff.
“Oh, great, more rules. Because that’s exactly what I need—another lecture from you,” Billie says, witheringly.
His tone’s sharp, but his fingers are still fidgeting, and his eyes dart to the window like he’s avoiding mine.
I stop a few feet away, crossing my arms.
“You can sass all you want, but you’re gonna follow these rules,” I bark. “No leaving the cabin without me. No touching the security equipment. Bedtime’s at ten, and you eat what I cook. Clear?”
Billie’s jaw drops, and he spins to face me, his cheeks flushing again.
“Bedtime? Are you serious? I’m not five, Max!” Billie says, his cheeks flushing red. “And I’m not eating your gross survival food or whatever you’re planning to make. I’m Billie B, I have standards!”
The damn boy is practically vibrating with indignation, his hands balled into fists, and I can see the tantrum building, just like I feared.
“Standards don’t keep you alive,” I say, stepping closer, my voice dropping low. “You’re here because someone wants to hurt you, Billie. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen. So you can pout, you can stomp, but you’re following my rules, or there’ll be consequences.”
Just like that, his eyes widen, and there’s that spark again, that mix of defiance and something else—something that makes his breath hitch.
“Consequences?” Billie asks, his voice softer now, almost curious. “What, you gonna ground me or something?”
I hold his gaze, letting the weight of my words settle.
“Keep pushing, and you’ll find out,” I say, my voice low and serious.
I don’t mean to lean into the Daddy tone, but it slips out, and I see it hit him—his lips part, his cheeks flush deeper, and for a second, he doesn’t look like the untouchable pop star. He looks like a boy who’s craving something he doesn’t understand.
